


Morning Glory

by epeolatry



Series: Halcyon Days [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Drunkenness, Hangover, M/M, Morning After, Non-Sexual Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/pseuds/epeolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another morning after a messy night before in Bahorel & Feuilly's flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Glory

Feuilly woke up drenched in sweat, alone in his sunlit bedroom, and naked from the waist down but still wearing a button down shirt – his _only_ smart shirt, now wrinkled and smelling of BO – from the night before. His mouth was dry and tacky, and his head throbbed – a symptom only exacerbated by the daylight blazing through his open window. Clearly he had been too hammered last night to remember to close the blinds. Or undress properly.

 

He summoned the energy to heave himself out of bed, drag on some boxers, and stumble towards the bathroom, where he doused his itchy face with cold water and felt mildly better. He was just bringing a cracked teacup full of water to his lips to take a second drink when he heard a groaning from the bathtub. He twitched the shower curtain aside to find Éponine and Musichetta tangled impossibly close together, their limbs entwined almost beyond extraction and apparently wearing one another’s clothes. Éponine groaned again and her head lolled back against the rim of the bath to look up at Feuilly.

 

“Send help,” she croaked.

 

Feuilly handed her his cup of water as Musichetta began to stir, smacking her head against the tap but seeming incapable of making any noise other than a pained gurgling.

 

“How’re the others?” Éponine asked Feuilly as she gracelessly disentangled herself from Musichetta.

 

“Dunno,” grunted Feuilly, “Just woke up.”

 

“Who were we even out with?” wondered Musichetta groggily, rubbing the back of her head.

 

“Bahorel,” supplied Feuilly, at the same moment as Éponine said, “Grantaire.”

 

“Well neither of them were in my room,” clarified Feuilly, and Éponine sniggered, “ _For once_.”

 

Musichetta giggled as she took the teacup from Éponine, refilled it with the tap beside her head, and drank deeply.

 

“So where are they then?” asked Éponine, probably still a little drunk judging by the slur in her words.

 

“Bahorel’s room?” suggested Feuilly.

 

After much grumbling, staggering, and swearing, the trio made it back down the hall to Bahorel’s room, pushing open the splintered door.

 

Grantaire was sprawled out on Bahorel’s bed, his morning wood tenting the sheets that rode low on his naked hips. Feuilly let out a bark of raspy laughter as he caught sight of Grantaire’s stubbled face, which appeared to have been painted with tiger stripes like a child at a carnival.

 

“I remember that! Musichetta dropped her handbag on the way home and Grantaire grabbed the make up and insisted we make him pretty!”

 

Musichetta laughed at the hazy recollection and Éponine smiled wryly as Grantaire grunted awake, rolling over and groaning, “What happened?”

 

“Fat night,” offered Musichetta.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“My place,” confirmed Feuilly, “In Bahorel’s bed. You don’t happen to know where he is?”

 

“I’m not even sure where _I_ am,” groaned Grantaire as he gratefully took the water-filled teacup from Musichetta and drained it in one go. He chanced a hand in Bahorel’s bedside drawer and after a minute of scrabbling about he threw out a tube of lube, two protein bars, and a slightly blood stained bandage. Finally he came up with a deck of cigarettes and a full packet of painkillers. He downed four of the pills and put a cigarette in his lips, casting around for a lighter. Feuilly obliged with his uncanny ability to always pull a lighter seemingly from nowhere, then grabbed the cigarette and relocated it to his own mouth, inhaling deeply. Grantaire simply shrugged, took another, and offered the pack to the girls. Éponine immediately grabbed one but Musichetta declined, not wanting to send Joly into shock by arriving home not only hungover but also reeking of cigarette smoke. Though the mischievous way Éponine was blowing smoke rings at her seemed to negate this precaution…

 

They all sat on the bed and smoked in silence, Grantaire with the sheets pooled around his waist, as unconcerned by his nudity as the rest of them. Feuilly was still wearing his rumpled shirt from the night before plus a ratty pair of boxers, Éponine was clad only in her knickers and Musichetta’s too-big shirt, and Musichetta was in much the same state, Éponine’s smaller shirt clinging to her curves in a way that would have been quite attractive if not for her tangled hair and haggard, hungover face.

 

Grantaire rubbed a tired hand over the thicker-than-usual stubble that covered his cheeks, his fingers coming away smeared with the black eyeliner with which Feuilly had improvised his tiger stripes.

 

“What the fuck is on my face?”

 

“Two pencils’ worth of eyeliner,” sniggered Feuilly around his third cigarette.

 

“Don’t worry,” smirked Éponine, “It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever woken up with on your face.”

 

“I hate you,” groaned Grantaire as the others all laughed hoarsely at him, “Really hate you. You’re such a bunch of dicks.”

 

“Just for that I’m not making you coffee,” tutted Feuilly, much more awake now that the levels of nicotine his body was used to had been restored.

 

“I take it back!” amended Grantaire, throwing the mostly empty pack of smokes at Feuilly as a peace offering.

 

Musichetta and Feuilly went to the kitchen to make a start on the coffee with Éponine and Grantaire trailing in their wake, Grantaire nonchalantly wrapping the sheet around his waist in lieu of his apparently missing clothing.

 

A little while later the flat was filled with the smell of brewing coffee and Musichetta was tutting over the lumpy milk in the fridge.

 

“I’m gonna go to the corner store, I’ll be back in ten- _Bahorel!_ ”

 

She had opened the front door to find the immense boxer slumped in the communal hallway of the apartment block, his head resting against the doorjamb.

 

“Is he dead?” asked Feuilly in a voice of feigned disinterest.

 

“I wish,” grunted Bahorel in a rough voice.

 

“You might as well be, you still owe me two months’ rent.”

 

“Good morning to you too, fuckface.”

 

Feuilly merely shrugged and passed his mug of black coffee to his slumped flatmate. Musichetta stepped over Bahorel to go and fetch the milk, having hurriedly pulled on a pair of one of the boys’ jeans she’d found discarded in the living room. Grantaire offered Bahorel a hand up and the boxer sniggered, “Easy tiger.”

 

Grantaire bared his teeth in a mock growl and Feuilly rolled his eyes as Bahorel pulled Grantaire down into his lap and smeared a large hand across the markings on his face, the sudden movement threatening to dislodge the artist’s modesty sheet.

 

“How did you even end up out here?” asked Éponine, settling herself in the small of Grantaire’s back as Bahorel pinned him face down on the floor.

 

“Forgot my keys,” answered Bahorel, deftly tying the sheet around Grantaire’s legs as the artist squirmed and protested.

 

“Happens more often than you’d think,” broke in Feuilly, grabbing Grantaire’s paint stained hands and pinning them to the floor.

 

Grantaire began swearing inventively but was cut off by Bahorel’s huge hand clamping over his mouth.

 

“Shh ‘Aire, can’t you see grown ups are talking?”

 

Just then Musichetta came back up the hallway carrying a bag full of groceries. As soon as she caught sight of Grantaire sprawled naked on the ground with his wrists pinned, his legs tied, and Éponine sitting atop him, she rolled her eyes.

 

“ _Guys_ , we’ve discussed this – appropriate behaviour in public places?”

 

Grantaire huffed gratefully around Bahorel’s fingers and nodded as best he could. Éponine sighed and stood up while Feuilly released the artist’s arms without argument.

 

“But he likes it!” griped Bahorel, untying Grantaire’s legs, “He loves being tied up.”

 

“Context!” gasped Grantaire, remaining on his stomach to hide the embarrassingly sudden stiffness between his legs.

 

“Context is everything,” agreed Musichetta, “Now who wants pancakes?”


End file.
